


Sanctuary and Symbols

by china_shop



Series: Trading Places [8]
Category: White Collar
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Character Swap, Episode Related, Fic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-20
Updated: 2012-09-20
Packaged: 2017-11-14 15:54:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/517038
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/china_shop/pseuds/china_shop
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I said I'd make a full confession," El started.</p><p>Clinton huffed. "To the judge. That was before you nearly gave me a heart attack, throwing yourself out a fourth floor window."</p><p>"I had a comfortable, pre-arranged landing," said El. "And actually, I never specified exactly to whom I would confess."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sanctuary and Symbols

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers for 1.07. Thanks for mergatrude for continued encouragement and beta! <3

El put her glass of wine on the table and picked up the bottle, holding it to the candlelight for a clearer view. The label was old and faded, the bottle itself smudged with age and fingerprints. If it held secrets, it was doing a good job of concealing them. What kind of code would Alex leave? She was usually more about symbols and origami than hidden messages.

"What have you tried?" she asked Mozzie. "Did you look at the label under polarized light?"

"Of course," said Mozzie, indignantly. "I've been over that thing with a fine-toothed comb. The glass is intact, no etchings or significant abrasions, no codes or microdots on the label, not even a pin prick. I even tested the dregs -- a lovely Chateau Cardboard from early October. There's nothing."

El sighed and slumped into a dining chair. She kicked off her shoes and peeled off her blonde wig and stocking cap, then propped her head in her hands and glared at the stupid, impervious bottle. "There must be something. Alex sent it for a reason."

Mozzie took the seat across from her. His eyes were serious behind his glasses. "What's this about? Why the sudden urgency?"

El sat up and began to tug the hairpins from her hair, delaying the inevitable.

"El?"

"Whoever has Alex is with the FBI," she said reluctantly. It felt like an admission of guilt, almost. El had been helping the Suits, as Mozzie called them, working with them, starting to trust them and even enjoy her role, and now this. "I mean, that's what Meilin said. I wouldn't trust her an inch, but--"

"But this is exactly what I warned you about," said Mozzie, waving his hands wildly, his voice shrill with alarm. "This confirms everything. If they can't enlist your willing help, they'll resort to coercion without blinking an eye. They're puppeteers, making us dance to their eerie Orwellian tune. Now you understand my fear of the Man--"

"Calm down, okay?" El gave him a pitiful look, designed to engender sympathy. It worked.

"You lie down with dogs--" But Mozzie's voice had dropped back to his normal register.

"Moz, if they do have Alex, I doubt it's official policy. The FBI doesn't have a medieval dungeon."

"I suppose it's _possible_ it's just one or two rogue agents, rather than endemic systemic corruption," he allowed, blatantly humoring her. "Do you have any suspects?"

"All I have is an accusation from an unreliable source," said El. "It's hearsay." She was trying to convince herself, as much as Mozzie, but Meilin's words, the calm conviction of her voice, kept echoing in her memory. Meilin hadn't been lying. She may have been misinformed, but she was Interpol; she had access to real information.

El shivered slightly and went to put her wig away, wondering where Alex was now: in a hotel room or a safe house under guard, in a cell. On the run. She could be anywhere. And it was up to El and Mozzie to find her, whatever it took.

 

*

 

The church was like any other -- dark wood, stained glass, organ pipes stretching like fingers toward the high vaulted ceilings. El kept her sunglasses on and loitered at the back, waiting for the low conversation near the altar to run its course, and against her will, she felt herself relaxing for the first time in days. The old laws of sanctuary might not apply anymore, but there was still something calming about the air in here, dust motes drifting in beams of sunlight, shadowy pews. She let her hand drift along the aged, polished wood of a baptism font, distracted by vague memories from childhood, and nearly missed Neal as he escorted toward the door a young couple and a matron who El picked as the mother of the bride. 

El stepped forward just in time, sliding her sunglasses from her nose, and Neal's eyes widened in recognition. 

"Please excuse me," he told his clients. "I'll call you tomorrow morning with those details about the reception."

The matron cast El a speculative look while the couple, refusing to be dismissed so lightly, asked Neal a dozen more questions, and then El had Neal's attention in relative privacy. "Elizabeth," he said. "Nice wig. You know that half the law enforcement in North America is looking for you right now, including my husband?"

"Surprise." El folded and unfolded her sunglasses. She shouldn't be here. No goodbyes, that was the rule, and Mozzie would throw up his hands in despair if he knew she was breaking it, but she couldn't just leave without sending Clinton a message. She didn't _want_ to leave -- not with a black mark against her name, Clinton angry and Alex still out there. She liked this life she was building, her home at June's and even her work with the Feds. But that was over now -- Clinton believed she'd stolen the stupid pink diamond, he'd think she'd forged the OPR phone transcripts, and without his trust, she had no choice. She pressed her lips together and gave Neal a winning smile. "Do me a favor, okay? Tell Clinton -- tell him I didn't let him down."

"Don't you think you should tell him that yourself?" Neal led her to the nearest pew and sat down next to her, and El felt obscurely comforted. She might be the focus of Clinton's wrath, but Neal wasn't holding it against her. That had to count for something. Still--

"I don't think he's really in the mood to listen, do you?" She shook her head. "This is it, Neal. I don't have a choice."

"You're leaving." Neal sounded disappointed. "I thought you'd stay and fight it out."

"Yeah, well, I was set up, and the guy who did it was pretty thorough. Without Clinton on my side--" She shrugged and stood up. "It was nice knowing you."

"I could call him right now." But Neal didn't reach for his phone. "Come on, sit down. You know, you never asked about my marriage."

"Uh--" El blinked. "I figured it was none of my business?"

"I mean, you know, same-sex marriage isn't legal in New York yet, even now, but we celebrated our tenth wedding anniversary this year. You weren't curious?"

"It's Clinton. I figured he'd arranged for a special dispensation from the Pope, or the head of the FBI had waved a magic wand, or something." Distracted, El sat back down. "You got married in Canada?"

"Canada only legalized in 2005," said Neal. "Guess again." He sounded casual, as if they had all the time in the world. Maybe he'd hit speed dial and Clinton was already on his way. Maybe he was stalling. 

El glanced nervously toward the door, but she couldn't make herself move. "Tell me."

"It's a pretty simple story," said Neal. "We met, we fell in love, we moved in together. Some of our friends got married, and we danced at their weddings. And then one day, when we'd been living together for just under a year, Clinton proposed. The full deal. Down on one knee, with a ring. I thought it was a joke. I thought marriage was for other people, you know? But he's Clinton." Neal dropped his gaze to his hands clasped loosely between his knees, the band gleaming on his ring finger. His mouth curved in a private smile as he remembered. "So we did it. The whole thing -- found an open-minded church, invited family and friends, did the whole five-course-meal, four-tiered-cake, endless-speeches reception. I ended up making most of the arrangements, which is actually how I got into the event planning business in the first place. Instead of a marriage license, we had Wills and powers of attorney. And ever since, we've been husbands -- out and proud." Neal looked up and caught El's eye. "When Clinton believes in something, he sees it through, no matter what the rules say." 

El swallowed past the lump in her throat. "He doesn't trust me."

"You do keep giving him reasons not to," Neal pointed out. "Tell him the whole truth and he'll believe you. I promise."

It was an impossible vow for him to make, but El wanted so much to take him at his word. If she and Clinton worked together, they could take down Fowler. They could do pretty much anything. Maybe he'd even help her find Alex. 

If they could work together. 

El folded her sunglasses and rubbed a smudge off the lens. "I'll talk to him, but I'm not turning myself in."

Neal smiled and touched her arm. "Come on, come home with me. There's leftover paella in the fridge, and Clinton will be home in an hour or two. You can talk then -- off the record."

"Pretty sure there's a team staking out your building," said El.

Neal grinned. "I have every confidence that between us we can find a way to sneak you in."

 

*

 

El was curled up in the corner of Clinton's couch, hands wrapped around a coffee cup. Clinton was in the armchair across from her, and he wasn't happy, but at least his anger was directed at Fowler now, since El had shown him the FBI-issue bug in his phone. He did believe her. It was a huge weight off El's mind. Their arrangement -- and his trust -- could be salvaged. They just needed to find the real jewel thief to clear El's name, dispense with Fowler and rescue Alex. 

Neal had retreated, leaving them alone. It was time to come clean.

"I said I'd make a full confession," El started.

Clinton huffed. "To the judge. That was before you nearly gave me a heart attack, throwing yourself out a fourth floor window."

"I had a comfortable, pre-arranged landing," said El. "And actually, I never specified exactly to whom I would confess." Clinton sent her a withering look that made her grin with a glimmer of her old mischief. The jump had been exhilarating and daring, and she was shamelessly glad Clinton had witnessed it. But her amusement faded fast. There were serious things they needed to discuss. "During the Chinatown operation -- Meilin didn't threaten me. She offered me information."

Clinton's posture didn't change, but she could feel him still, his focus sharpen. "What kind of information?"

"Alex Hunter," said El, watching him carefully. He didn't react. Which meant he didn't have Alex. Another weight lifted. Any more, and she might start to float. "She's missing, in trouble. I need to find her."

Clinton took a drink of coffee, his eyes never leaving her. "Who is she to you?"

"She's a friend." El ran her thumb over the art deco patterns of the coffee cup and took a breath. "A long time ago, we both tried to con the same guy. He was rich and ruthless -- I had no idea how ruthless. And I sold her out to him to earn his trust."

"You painted a bull's-eye on her back."

El tilted her head, not wanting to frame it like that. It hadn't been personal. She'd just been doing what cons had done since time immemorial. And yet. "It made it very difficult for her to operate locally. He had a lot of connections."

"Who was this guy?" asked Clinton.

El bit her lip. This was the point of no return. She hadn't succeeded in the con, so she couldn't be arrested for it, but giving Clinton a name would draw him into the mess, potentially putting him in danger.

"Elizabeth." His voice was quiet and compelling, and El gave in.

"His name was Vincent Adler."

"Wait. _The_ Vincent Adler?" Clinton's lip curled. "So you were part of his Ponzi scheme."

"No!" El's grip on her mug tightened. "No, I had no idea. He conned me too. I lost everything when he pulled the plug."

"Do you know where he is?" 

Clinton sounded serious and intent, and El refrained from rolling her eyes and tried to gently draw him back on topic. "No one's seen or heard from him in years. But he still has connections, and now Alex is missing."

"She's off the grid?"

"Meilin said someone from the FBI has her." El met Clinton's gaze. "I think it's Fowler."

Clinton let out a silent whistle. "You want me to investigate OPR. That's career suicide."

"He bugged your phone," El pointed out. "Someone has to stop him. Mitchell and Jones -- it's what we do."

"Jones and Mitchell," said Clinton. "And it's what I do. You're a wanted fugitive, last time I checked."

"Well, we'll just have to fix that, won't we?" El smiled hopefully and stood up to hand him the burner phone she'd been using for the last day. She'd deleted its call history while she was waiting for him to arrive home. "This is clean. If you need to get in touch--"

"Get out of here," said Clinton, shaking his head, but his voice was warm and affectionate, and he was letting her walk. El took that warmth with her as she slipped away to hide at one of Mozzie's many safe houses.

 

*

 

Mozzie was reclining on the couch when El got home. She was still buzzing from catching Adrienne Tulane red-handed. They'd closed the case, and the revocation of El's fugitive status had been celebrated with cheap champagne in paper cups -- not her preferred form of celebration, but Clinton had been pleased and Peter had actually complimented her Bridget Bardot wig. It would suffice.

"So," said Mozzie mournfully, when she filled him in on the news. "Another brilliant criminal behind bars."

"It was either her or me."

"Lose-lose."

"Sorry, Moz," said El. "I know it contravenes your core principles."

Mozzie sat up far enough to grab his wineglass from the coffee table and then slumped back again, still clutching the bottle. "I'm consoling myself with the knowledge that I didn't sully myself by actively helping with the investigation." 

"You're consoling yourself with my wine collection," said El. "And the knowledge that I'm still on the outside."

"And that." Mozzie blinked up at her, his forehead creasing. "You know how sometimes you look so closely at something you can't see it anymore?"

"The bottle," said El. She sat down across from him, and then something clicked. "We've been looking at it like it's glass and paper and ink. But it's not. It's--"

"A symbol," said Mozzie.

El stood up again and grabbed it off him, but now she was looking at it as a whole -- the wood instead of the trees. "What are the safety box numbers at the Midtown Mutual branches? The ones the key might open."

"At West 55th Street branch, the range is 2280 to 3850. Broadway is 5310 to 8600. Lexington is 1950 to 2250 -- that's the smallest branch."

"1950?" said El. "1982?"

"A 1982 Bordeaux bottle!" said Mozzie, outraged. "It can't possibly that simple. I mean, a mere child could have--"

El cut him off with a gesture. "It's worth a try. I'll drop in tomorrow."

"Can you do Alex's signature?"

"Oh, please," said El. "I can even do it right way up." She felt confident and sparkly. "Moz, I think we might actually have a lead."

 

END

**Author's Note:**

> I'm finally conceding that this is a WIP, not a series. (I didn't mean it to be! It just happened!) Sometime soon I'll update DW/LJ and AO3 accordingly. In the meantime, please read "END" as "to be continued," and if you're subscribed to the series, you may want to come back in a day or two and subscribe to the WIP. Sorry for the inconvenience! :-)


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